The City of Dreams -- Part 14

[I started this next section with the idea that Brie and Perry needed to do something fun together.  Other than that, I didn't really know where it was going, and it caught me a bit by surprise.  Hope you enjoy it.

[Oh!  Also, I've gone and purchased the desktop version of Write or Die.  Still love it, and now I can write while I'm offline.  Or die.  One or the other.  $10 very well spent.  Thanks, Write or Die!]



"Hey," I said.
"Come on," said Brie, nodding her head down the road and starting walking.
"Wait.  I wanted to tell you something."
Brie turned back to look at me but kept walking backwards.  "No time, Perry.  It's time to do something fun."  She turned back away and started running.
"What do we do for fun in the City?" I asked the air.
"I do all kinds of things," said Not.  "I watch you.  Watch other people.  Watch them eat.  Watch those Hispanics painting thirty-two rooftops into a mural of Super Man--"
"Thanks," I interrupted, "but what do I do for fun?"
"Follow Brie and find out," suggested the abandoned dream.
I shrugged to myself.  "I guess following Brie is fun."
She'd slowed down, looking back to see if I was coming.  I decided I was, and started running.  Talking could wait for another time, especially since I didn't know what I was going to say.  I just knew it would be better than any of the things I said when I was awake.  I waved her ahead, she smiled, pointed down another street with both hands, and took off running again.
"I run way more when I'm asleep than when I'm awake," I said.
"Exercise is good for you," said Not.
"Even when I'm asleep?"
"Probably," he said.
"Not," I finished for him.  "Where were you when I was talking with Mrs. Humphrey?"
"Reading.  She has the most amazing collection of books in that house.  Oddly enough, the stories all have the same title, even though the insides are all different.  It's the craziest thing."
I was curious, but I was out of breath for questions, so I kept running.  Brie was a solid half-block ahead of me and I had longer legs, but not by much.  Also, I suspected she actually exercised on occasion.  Not that I couldn't run--I'd proved that with the light posts--but I certainly wasn't my sister.  Any of my sisters.  Fortunately for my nerves, the light posts in this part of town were the tame, yellowish variety, most of them staying in one place, though I did have to skirt around the edge of a white-picket fence that was being firmly turned away by a bearded man.  It seemed he didn't need TWO fences for his small plot of grass and flowers.
After another block Brie let me catch up with her--I didn't have any illusions about being faster than she was--but she kept us jogging.
"Where?" I got out, trying to not sound too out of breath.
"Are we going?" she finished, a little out of breath herself.  "Not far."
I tried to get any kind of bearing on which direction we were headed, but I still knew next to nothing about the geography of the City.  I also didn't know where we had started from, whether there was a north or south in this place, or even if the city stayed the same from night to night.  For all I knew, the City of Dreams was never the same place twice.  Actually, from what I knew, that seemed most likely of all.
We ran down a street where the ground floor of every building was a store front for a new letter of the alphabet.  We jogged past THE A STORE, B STORE, C'S UNLIMITED, and D, INC., all the way through Z DEPOT.  Then there was a store for some letter that was a vague cross between the letter L and a jolt of electricity.  I stopped trying to see the letters after the next one growled at me.
"Really almost there," said Brie, and we turned another corner.  "There."
I slowed down, and she slowed down with me.  "The freeway?"
"Exactly."
"Why are we at the freeway?" I gasped, stopping to put my hands on my knees.
"Put your hands on your head instead," Brie suggested, showing me by example.  We won't discuss what that did to the hang of her hoodie, but I followed her example.   "And this is the place where the freeways meet."
That, at least, was hard to argue with.  Ahead of us was a bizarre tangle of road planning gone wrong, layers and snarls of over- and under- and side-passes, figure-eights, clover-leaf junctions, and all the other freeway intersections that I'm sure had names but that I just as surely didn't know.  The entire pile of pillars and pilings and pavement seemed to stretch for miles.
"What do we do, now that we've found this place?" I asked, my breathing under better control.
"We get in there before they wake up," said Brie, smiling, and she was off running again.
"Crap," I said, jogging after her slowly, but catching her smile around my own mouth where it tugged at a laugh from inside me.  "What do you do when an overpass wakes up?"


I clung to the cement barrier like my life depended on it.  It probably didn't, but even after the light post incident, I still wasn't completely sure I couldn't die in the City.
"Isn't this GREAT?" shouted Brie over the rush of the wind.
I just laughed and shook my head.  We were braced against a line of cement blocks that marked the edge of an unfinished highway overpass--an overpass that was rushing through the City at what must have been sixty-miles-per-hour, enough to make my eyes water and blow the air back into my lungs as I tried to breathe out.
     I guess I'd found out what you do when an overpass wakes up.
     We had followed the crowd to find our particular overpass.  As we pushed our way into the chaos of roads and spans and bridges, I'd soon seen that we weren't the only ones headed to wherever we were going.  We'd passed one gentleman pushing a walker who smiled at me amiably and shuffled along as fast as he could.  A teenager with what must have been a five-year-old girl clinging to his back was galloping like a horse as she whooped with him.  People came from all directions--not too many, but enough to make me think Brie might really know where she was going--and we were all converging on a ramp that led to a stretch of highway that separated off to another ramp and finally to a dead end.
     "The sign says 'Road Closed,'" I said to Brie when she finally let me catch up.
     "Exactly," she said, breathing hard enough that I started to feel okay about my own raspy ins and outs.  "Isn't it exciting?"
     "But what do we do here?"
     "Shh," she said.  "Listen.  Can you feel it?"
     I had no idea what I was supposed to be feeling.  Short of breath?  I was there.  A little nervous?  A little excited?  Yes to both of those, actually.  The moon was still so immense overhead, stars twirling, the wind swirling blue and a bit cold where we stood.  Brie was still looking at me and smiling, so I took a deep breath or three and tried to see what there was to feel.
     I felt it first through my feet.  There was a slight vibration that I finally realized wasn't the result of running too far on legs that weren't used to the concept.  The cement under us was quivering.  Then it wasn't.  Then it was again.
     I looked up at Brie.  She smiled even more broadly and nodded.  "You can feel it," she said.
   "What is that?" I asked.
   "Snoring."
   "You're not serious."
     "Come ON," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me along.  Something inside me was delighted that she had taken my hand again--the first time since I'd screwed things up with her, so maybe things were going right again--and part of me was a but put off by the fact that we were running toward a cliff.  A snoring cliff.
     That was, in effect, what the edge of that unfinished overpass was.  When we joined the other crazy people at the cement barricades that lined the completed segment of road, Brie leaned out and looked down.  I followed her example and scooted right back.
     "Are you NUTS?" I asked.
     "Crazy, huh?" she said.
     "How did we get up so high?"  I couldn't imagine it.  We must have been six or seven stories up, and I didn't remember running UP that much.
     "Some of the roads we came on were awake already.  They moved us along while we were getting here.  Be grateful: it means you didn't have to run as far."
     "I'll be grateful from over here, if that's okay."
     "What's the matter, Perry?  Scared of heights?"
     "Should I try to be manly here?"
     Brie put on a serious face.  "Always be manly, young man."
     "In that case, then yes.  I'm scared of heights."
     She laughed.  "How is admitting that 'manly?'"
     "Real men are always honest, aren't they?"
     Brie just looked at me.  "I guess so," she said finally.
     The road under us shook, not the slight tremor of the snores, but a real, honest-to-goodness earthquake kind of shaking.  Someone too close to the edge when it happened fell off.  I felt the air go out of my lungs as they tipped and disappeared, but the scream that floated up from beyond the edge was delighted, not terrified--and then it was gone.
     "Is he okay?" I asked.
     "Relax, Perry," said Brie.  "It's just a dream.  Grab hold and LEAN."
     I followed her example, though a bit reluctantly, and soon I was braced against the cement barrier with my feet, my hands locked around some steel rebar that poked up over the blocks, leaning out over a tangle of roads that was now looking like it was seven or eight stories below me.  Around us other people had taken similar positions.  The man with the walker had somehow caught up with us and was being helped into a harness that tied onto the rebar and leaned him out even further than we were managing.  The teenager was still galloping around, the girl on his shoulders now.
     "This is insane," I said.
     Brie smiled at me.  "Isn't it great?"
     That's when the overpass REALLY woke up.
     Around me, fifty voices shouted together as the entire roadway began to move.  At first I felt it as wind in my face, then looking down I saw that the bends and turns of road below us were moving under me and out of sight, new curls coming closer.  Beneath us there was a massive, rolling, bass boom, then another, and another.  Buildings in the distance to either side were crawling by, then the wind picked up and the buildings were sweeping by.
     "What's that noise?" I shouted to Brie.
     "Cement pillars," she shouted back.  "The overpass puts down new ones to support itself."
     Another boom, and I felt it through my arms and legs.  Stars plunged down from the sky to swirl around us, mixing with the blue wind in a surreal dance of silver and cold.  I realized I was shouting along with everyone else, laughing in the face of this immense force of steel and cement that was rushing through the night to the slow, crushing rhythm of its newly-made feet.  It could crush me in an instant, throw me off and leave me behind, too small to be noticed--if it weren't all a dream.
     Off to the side a group of kids, older than us by a few years, had taken up a chant.  They were clustered around a break in the cement barrier, and as the chant gained in speed and intensity, one teenager in an oversized coat came sprinting through the crowd, hurtling himself at an angle off the edge of the overpass and into the air.  The crowd cheerd as he fell, comically windmilling his arms, and then he was gone beneath the lip of the surging road, left behind in the speed of our onward rush.
     "They're nuts, too!" I shouted.
     "Absolutely," yelled Brie, "but this is a dream.  Aren't we all crazy in dreams?"
   I had no answer to that, so I just smiled at her, leaned into the wind, and screamed as the night rushed by, blue and silver and completely mad.


     "Admit it," said Brie, "that was fun."
     "Okay, it was fun.  But I still think those kids who threw themselves off the overpass were crazy."
     "Bat-snarfed-crazy," agreed Brie.
     "'Bat-snarfed?'"
     "Bat-snarfed."
     "What does that even mean?" I asked.
     "Who cares?" she laughed, spinning as we walked.  We were someplace far across the City from where we had started, wherever we had climbed down to when the overpass had finally slowed and settled back into a quiet, bass purr of contentment.
     I watched Brie as she spun.  The sleeves of her hoodie were too long and hung down over her hands, leaving only the tips of her fingers sticking out into the night.  She was looking up at the sky, skipping and dancing.  I felt like skipping a bit, too.  Riding an overpass does remarkable things to a body's adrenaline levels.
     It also makes teenage girls look beautiful.
     "Does that happen every night?" I asked, because I wanted to hear Brie talk more.
     "Who knows?" she said, settling enough to walk next to me.  "I don't go every night, but I could feel it was going to happen today, and then I found you, and I had to show you.  Sometimes people do too much talking.  Sometimes we just have to DO things."
     "I like doing things with you," I said.  I was surprised that I said it, but there it was.  Something I never could have squeeked out during the day, and I'd said it out loud, clear as the night sky.
     Brie looked at my eyes.  "I like doing things with you, too," she said.
     I swallowed.  "Maybe we should keep doing things together."
     "I'd like that," she said.
     We walked for a while, not saying anything.  My hands were in my pockets, mostly because I wanted to hold Brie's hand and I didn't dare, even as good as I felt in the City.  The street we walked down was quiet, lit by the glow of televisions in shop windows--walls and walls of them--all playing scenes from some nature show about China.  It was as close to walking through a Chinese landscape as you could get in the middle of Urban concrete.
     "Perry," said Brie.  
     "Present," I said.
     "I've been thinking," she continued, looking at the ground in front of her.  "We don't have to hang out during the day."
     "But I want--"
     She cut me off with a glance.  "I saw how uncomfortable you were today, hanging out at lunch--no, don't talk, Perry.  My turn.  I know you were trying your best, and Mike and Sook are really nice, but you were never quite comfortable with it all.  And that's okay.  You don't have to be.  I mean, we have the City, and we can meet up here, and you won't have to feel all tangled up and unhappy.  You can have fun," she said, looking at me, "and I can be with you."
     I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.
     "Does that sound all right?" she asked after a bit.
     "You know I'm not unhappy because of you," I said.
     She nodded.  "I know that."
     "I'm kind of unhappy all the time.  Not 'kind of.'  I'm unhappy all the time when I'm awake.  Actually, when I'm with you is about the closest I get to being really happy."
     "I'm glad," said Brie.
     "I wish I were different somehow when I'm awake, but I get all gummed up inside, like I need an oil change and my motor doesn't run right--"
     "Perry," interrupted Brie.
     "What?"
     "Shut up."
     "Yes, ma'am."
     "We can hang out at night, and during the day we just see how it goes.  Okay?"
     "Okay," I said.
     "Besides," she said, smiling brightly again, "wasn't tonight fun?"
     "Tonight was amazing," I said.

The City of Dreams -- Part 13

[Sorry for getting it out so late in the day.  Illness is still chasing around in our home (which might explain some of what Mrs. Humphrey says in this section).  Other than that, not much to say about this bit, except for some self-referential humor that I hope my friends will appreciate and new readers won't find too out of place.  Enjoy!]



She pulled out a piece of bread, broke it into pieces, and scattered them into a planter of pansies.  The bread was gone in moments.
The woman chuckled.  "Hungry tonight, are we?  Well, you're all hungry every night.  'Hunger like a stone, grinds the soul 'twixt longing and need.'"
I slipped past some type of shrub and sat next to her, though at the far end of the bench--not that there was that much bench for having far ends.
"Was that Shakespeare?" I asked.
"Sounded formal, did it?" asked the woman.  "No, not Shakespeare.  Humphrey.  Patricia M. Humphrey.  Ever heard of her?"
"Not that I know of," I admitted.
"Of course not," she said, breaking up another slice of bread.  "That's because she only published three plays, two novels, a mess of poetry, and none of them classics.  Not a single one."  She looked up at me through her glasses.  Her eyes were blue and watery but her smile was genuine and gentle.  "What's your name, young man?"
"Perry," I said.  "Perry Crows."  I realized she'd let go of the bag to offer me her hand.  I shook it.
"I'm Patricia," she said.  "Patricia M. Humphrey."
"Pleased to meet you."
"You can call me Patricia, if you like, though I know young people aren't always comfortable doing that with us old folks, so Mrs. Humphrey works just as well.  Besides," she said, tossing more bread to the waiting flora, "a touch more formality wouldn't hurt us, not in our world where everyone is 'friends' with everyone else.  It wouldn't break us to look on each other as objects worthy of respect--to see each other as works of art, instead of as something common, like a nail or a plate or a footstool.  No, wouldn't hurt us at all."  She smiled at me again and tossed more bread.
After a minute I spoke up.  "I didn't mean to invade your garden," I said.
"Pish," said Mrs. Humphrey.  "Nothing to be concerned about.  We usually decide where we lie down to dream, but we hardly ever manage to control where those dreams take us, do we?  'Dreams lurk behind us, waiting until we let down our guard, until we let our attention slip for just a moment--and then they snatch us up and take us away, captive in their wondrous prisons.'"
"Humphrey again?" I asked.
"You catch on quickly, young man.  I once had many things memorized, but it seems in the City that all I can remember is what I myself said once--or wished I'd said.  Here I suppose it amounts to the same thing.  Piece of bread?  For you or the plants, doesn't matter to me, though if you do eat some try to be discreet.  They can be irritable about what they consider 'their' food."
I blinked and realized I was hungry.  "Thank you," I said, taking the offered slices.  I tossed a few pieces and sneaked one for myself.  "This is good bread," I said, surprised.
Mrs. Humphrey smiled.  "Looks like the generic styrofoam you buy in any grocery store, but the taste...the taste is what I remember from when I was a girl.  Convenient AND delicious.  It's a difficult combination to argue with."  She peered at me through her glasses.  "Do you want to argue with it?"
"No, ma'am," I said through a full mouth.
Her smile brightened.  "I like you, Mr.--Crows, was it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What a curious name."
"We think it was Polish."
Her eyebrows went up and the corners of her mouth turned down.  "Could be, I suppose.  They did change so many names as newcomers made their way into America.  Couldn't leave well enough alone, could we?  Everything had to sound English.  Or Irish.  Though I suppose I can't complain too much.  Before the Humphreys made our way to the United States we were still called Humphrey.  It was my people who did all the name changing.  What silly people we all are at times, don't you think, Mr. Crows?"
"I do, Mrs. Humphrey."  I was smiling at her, too.  I liked this woman.  Yes, I wanted to go find Brie, but who knew if she were even awake?  I somehow felt I'd find Brie when I needed to, but for right then, right there, spending time with an author in her roof garden--well, there were much worse ways to start out the night in the City.
"Have you been coming to the City long?" I asked, tossing more bread to a tuft of decorative grass.
"Oh, my, yes," said Mrs. Humphrey.  "Years and years.  Writing is not a business most are ever satisfied with, Mr. Crows.  We write and write, and what fame we get still never proves to us that we're any good.  No, writers are never content, so I suppose that's why you'll meet so many of us here."
"I'm not sure I have met any other writers here," I said.
"Well, there is that, too," she admitted, nodding.  I wasn't sure what 'that' was, but I enjoyed the way she nodded so I didn't want to interrupt.  "Did you know," she went on, "I once wrote an entire play about a boy and his dog.  The dog wasn't imaginary, but it wasn't real, either.  It was like it knew him inside and out, prodded the boy when the boy was too delighted with himself, lifted up the boy when he was discouraged.  It was an entire Greek chorus wrapped up into one insubstantial canine."
"How did the play do on stage?"
"Oh, no, bless you, Mr. Crows.  No one ever staged the thing.  It was a disaster, really, but your comment about meeting all types here got me thinking: so many of us have parts of ourselves that we're unhappy with, that we argue with, that we'd be glad to set aside for a day or a year or forever.  It would be so pleasant, wouldn't it?"
“Um,” I said.
“What is it, Mr. Crows?”
"I'm not sure I said that, Mrs. Humphrey."
"Didn't you?"
"I don't think so."
"About meeting all types?"
I shook my head.
She took a deep breath and sighed.  "I suppose I must have thought it, then.  Doesn't matter.  The thought is true, still.  Each of us have a dog in us, a part of us that we don't quite know what to do with.  It's how we respond to that dog that really shows who we are, don't you think?  Are you laughing at me, young man?"
I was, though I was trying not to.  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Humphrey, really I am.  I'm just having so much fun being with you.  I have no idea what you're going to say next, and that's really...really...fun."
"Come now, Mr. Crows, certainly you can find a better word than 'fun.'  'Delightful' has perhaps been overused, but still has definite merits.  'Exhilarating' doesn't apply to all situations, but still might be relevant.  Dig deep in your vocabulary, young man.  It adds zest to life."  Her mouth was stern as she talked to me, but her eyes through her oversized glasses had happiness in the wrinkles around them.  I was glad I hadn't offended her.
“And now, lest you think my mind is entirely gone,” she said, “let me finish my point.  Since most of us have parts of ourselves that we seldom trot out to show the neighbors, it’s not surprising that few of us are content.  So, it stands to reason that you would meet all types in the City, and not just writers.  There.  Did that make sense?”
I nodded.
"Very good," said Mrs. Humphrey.  "Though, confidentially, I do expect that most of the people you meet here have fancied themselves as writers at some point or another.  It's a disease, you know, this language that we speak.  It breeds in our minds like bacteria, words and words spilling and swilling around with each other, until we're so ill with it all that we must vomit it out.  For most it comes out in idle chatter and useless pontification--which is a wonderful word that I haven't had opportunity to use in far too long--but for some it comes out in beautiful phrases and cogent expression.  Language is a disease and a cure, Mr. Crows.  It is the Balm in Gilead and brimstone on the tongue.  It is sacrosanct and anathema.  It is manna and mothballs."
My mouth twitched involuntarily.  "I got that last one," I said.
"Smelled mothballs recently, have you?"
I nodded again.  "Helped my mom clean out a trunk at our neighbor's house.  She passed away and had all kinds of stuff, piled in every part of her house.  It was unbelievable, and I had to shower twice before I could stop smelling like her closets."
"Another disease, Mr. Crows," said Mrs. Humphrey, handing me two more slices of bread.  "Possessions are yet another disease, though I won't wax as poetic about things as I do about words.  So often words seem more real to me than objects I can touch with my hands or feel rough against my cheek.  Or trip over in the dark, for that matter."  She reached out and took my hand, looking deep in my eyes.  I held very still.
"Words we can take with us wherever we go, Mr. Crows.  Words we can take with us to heaven or to hell.  Things are all left behind, dust to dust to dust."
She released my hand and looked back to the plants that, while still quick to snatch up any morsel we threw, were less frantic to get our attention.
"Words and memories, what we've seen and said, heard and done.  Those follow us everywhere, Mr. Crows.  Everywhere."
I looked up at the moon, so low overhead.  I wasn't sure why, but I didn't want to look at Mrs. Humphrey right then.  Something about her made me blink away wet a the corners of my eyes.
She sighed again.  "But that's not why you came to visit me, is it, young man.  You didn't want to hear an old author pretend she had something to say worth hearing, did you?"
"I really don't mean to be rude," I said, "but I didn't come to visit you on purpose at all.  This is just where I woke up."
"Exactly," she said.
"Exactly what?"
"We all find people we need in the City, don't we?  Not that we always know why.  This is a place where we come looking, and looking is the first step to finding for most things.  So what is it that you're looking for, Mr. Crows?"
I shook my head and ate another piece of bread.  "I have no idea.  Mr. Punctilious told me I'm looking for something, Father Thomas told me I'm depressed, and now I've met you."
"Depressed, is it?  Silly concept.  Something they invented in the last fifty years, I'm sure, made up to give a new name to unhappiness.  What was wrong with 'malaise,' 'discontent,' and 'distress?'  Perhaps you've come to me to find new words to describe this silly thing you think you have."
"I...never actually thought I was depressed," I said.  "People just told me that.  Is it made up?"
"Depression?  No, certainly not.  I didn't mean to give you that impression, Mr. Crows.  I apologize.  My argument isn't with the state of being, it is with the word as it is applied.  A personal quibble, and a losing battle that I'd better set aside.  I don't know this Father Thomas, but if he wasn't the only one to tell you that you face 'depression'--terrible word for it--then I expect they're right.  So what do you do for a hobby?"
I blinked at her.  "I'm sorry?"
"A hobby.  Do you draw, paint, crochet, dig ditches?  Heaven help you, do you write?"
"I don't really have hobbies.  I just do school and...that's kind of it."
"Use strong language, Mr. Crows.  Is school 'it' or is school not 'it?'  Choose one or the other, elaborate, clarify, and leave 'kind of' for the lesser minds who deserve such a useless phrase."
I was smiling again.  "Yes, ma'am."
"Language is a serious thing, Mr. Crows."
"Yes, ma'am."
"We've been over this."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Now answer my question."
"I don't have any activities I'd consider a hobby.  I do school, spend time with friends and family, but don't have anything else that I spend regular time on."
"There," she said with satisfaction.  "Clear.  Interesting.  Strong.  Now I know more about you, not only through your information, but also the way you presented it.  You can think clearly and distill the essence of what it means to 'have a hobby.'  I'm glad you'd think it worth your while to come visit me."
"But I didn't come--"
She interrupted me with a glance.  "It is not polite to keep reminding one's host that one is an accidental visitor, Mr. Crows.  Also, we always choose what we do, do we not?"
I thought about many of the hours I'd spent in school.  I suppose my doubt showed on my face.
"Think clearly, young man," said Mrs. Humphrey.  "If you didn't want to visit with me, could you not be elsewhere at the moment?  If you truly didn't want to be in school--which, I surmise, is at least one boring activity you might have been thinking of in the moments just passing--couldn't you find any number of other activities to occupy your time?  You cannot deny it, because it is true.  You choose to be in school, at least in part because you'd rather not choose the consequences that come from avoiding school.  And now you have chosen to spend time with me.  And I appreciate it.  And I thank you."
She was smiling at me, and I smiled back at her.
"You’re welcome," I said.
"But that time is done."  Mrs. Humphrey stood and brushed bread crumbs from her trousers.  "I'll show you out and expect an answer for next time."
"An answer to which question?"
"Did I ask more than one?  Heavens.  In that case choose which pleases you, but if I only asked one, then use your memory and your creativity to find both the question and an answer.  In the meantime, walk faster, Mr. Crows."
She walked toward the stairwell quickly and I had to hurry to catch up.  I dropped what was left of my bread onto a potted cactus and managed to catch the door before it swung closed.  The stairway was narrow and made narrower by piles of paper lining one wall.
"I apologize for the mess," called Mrs. Humphrey from down the stairs ahead of me.  "It seems that every book I meant to write but never 'found the time for'--another useless phrase, I might add--has ended up here.  They're piled all over this narrow disaster of a home--no, not your fault," she said, patting the wall, "so you don't need to groan at me, you beast--and with every manuscript I hoped to produce, I hardly have the space to move, as small as I am.  Come along, Mr. Crows, sleep is a fleeting thing."
She charged ahead, down three floors of stairs.  The landings gave me views of rooms, all filled with equal parts furniture and paper, until Mrs. Humphrey was holding a door open ahead of me and I spilled out into the night, accompanied by a spray of loose-leaf.
“What does a hobby have to do with depression?” I asked, laughing at Mrs. Humphrey’s rush.
"See if you can’t tell me, and come again soon, young man."  That was my only goodbye before the door was shut behind me.  I looked at the solid wood, amused.  I didn't know what to make of the aging author, but I did think I'd visit again.
I turned around to go find Brie, wherever she might be, and almost ran into Brie.
"Hi," she said.

Sorry To Say

There will be no City of Dreams section today.  It was Jan Marie's birthday, and I spent my time being sick and cooking a birthday stew.  (It turned out pretty well, I might add.  The sick and the stew were unrelated.)

Also, just as a quick warning, Fat Tony will not be available as a complete download for much longer.  It's about time to start trying to sell the book, and I don't know how agents and publishers would feel about it being available on the web, so it'll be going away.  Share it with your friends now!  Get them coming to the website!  We'll have a Fat Tony Fiesta!

I've tried to think of how to do a birthday tribute to Jan Marie on this blog.  I haven't come up with anything.  Fat Tony would dodge the issue, that's for sure.  Perry wouldn't even have the energy to get started (unless he were asleep).  Pete would over-do it, go on way too long, and have to rely on The Dog to shut him up.

I'll just say, Happy Birthday, Jan Marie.  I've loved you for almost ten years, and here's to sixty more and beyond.

The City of Dreams -- Part 12

[My sister-in-law, Ammie, has challenged me to provide reading material for her to read aloud with my brother.  I guess there's a national read-aloud event, but I couldn't quite tell if it's for all of March, or just for tomorrow--which happens to be my wonderful wife's birthday.  (Also, the birthday of Dr. Seuss.  Not that that is relevant.)

[Since I don't know whether it's a one day thing or an every day thing, maybe I'll just have to provide new material every day this month....]



School was school.
It wasn't as bad as it could have been, and, in fact, was quite a bit better.  I made the entire class laugh--on purpose--during world history, and I was nice to be with.  I even remembered three names I didn't think I knew.  Unfortunately, none of them belonged to the drama girl I'd met the day before, and she said 'hi' to me in the hall, so I said 'hi' back, pulled my backpack off my shoulder, and started digging around in it like I had something I needed to find.  I don't know if she would have stopped to talk to me anyway, but if she'd wanted to then I put her off by being busy, and we went on our way.  Safe from embarrassment.  For the moment.
I knew fourth period was coming, but I had a plan for English.  I was going to get there early.  I was going to find Brie and apologize.  I was going to do it.  I'd even practiced five different ways of saying it in my head.  None of them sounded very good, but somewhere in my second bowl of breakfast I'd decided that didn't matter.  Sure, I'd probably screw it up, but I couldn't make it worse, I might even be funny, and at least I would have tried.
Fact was, all the time I'd been talking with Tamara, I wanted to be talking with Brie.  I knew it was stupid, just a fresh crush, but I couldn't convince myself that was such a bad thing.  She was funny, and clever, and seemed plenty smart to me.  It also didn't hurt that she was cute.  I had spent most of yesterday, not to mention a good chunk of the night, trying to convince myself that she didn't want to be with me and I didn't want to be with her.  I also knew that half of that was a lie.  I did want to be with her, so I was going to try it.
It also didn't hurt my courage that Tamara teased me about Brie the entire way to school.  It seemed like that was the only part of our conversation that she remembered, the way she kept bringing it up through the entire car ride.  Cindy, sitting in the back, of course had to know what was going on, and that led to lots and lots of questions about what, exactly, Brie was like, and how we met, and did I seriously dream about her, and she dreamed about ME?  The result of all that teasing was that I was looking for exactly one through the entire morning.  I might go down in flames, but I would at least try to fly.  I would apologize to Brie.
She found me while I was walking to English.
"Hey, Perry," she said, stepping up next to me and bumping into my shoulder.
"Catch you in a bit," said Mike.  He broke away, headed to some lockers, and started fiddling with one of the combination locks.
"Is that his locker?" asked Brie as we walked on.
"No," I said.
Brie smiled.  "I like Mike," she said.
"Me, too."
Brie's smile went away.  "Perry," she started.
"Brie," I said, "I--"
"--need to apologize," we finished together.
"What?" I said.
"I need to apologize," she said again.  "I overreacted yesterday."
"No you didn't."
"Yes, I did."
"I was a jerk."
"Not really."
"Yes, really.  I ignored you for almost the entire class."
"But it's not like we could have talked, or passed each other notes, or anything like that."
"I guess we could have texted," I said.
"And have our teacher snag our phones and read the messages to the entire class?  No thank you."
"But I screwed it up," I insisted.
"Well...kinda," she admitted, "but it wasn't a big screw up.  I was still kind of...keyed up from the night before.  I had a lot of fun."
"I did, too," I said.
"But you didn't look like it when you looked at me in English."
"I know.  Like I said, I screwed up."
"Stop it," said Brie.
"Stop what?"
"Stop beating yourself up.  I knew what you were like in the waking world.  I knew you were different in the City, but I expected you to be the sleeping Perry, and I got the awake Perry, and it surprised me, but you don't have to blame yourself for that." "I'm sorry you were disappointed," I said.  I felt my shoulders hunching up under my backpack straps.
"No!  I wasn't disappointed.  It just caught me off guard.  The waking you is okay, too."
"Okay?"
She hit me on the shoulder.  "Stop that."
"So I can't beat myself up, but you can beat me up?"
"Exactly."
We walked quietly for a few seconds.
"I tried to find you yesterday," I said.
"I know.  Carrie told me."
"Who's Carrie?"
"Are you serious?" asked Brie, laughing.
"I told you I don't remember names very well.  Or people."
"Carrie was the girl in the drama room that you talked to."
"Oh.  Carrie.  Is she your friend?"
Brie gave a half shrug.  "Sure.  We've been in plays together."
"You don't sound very sure," I said.
"We've definitely been in plays together," said Brie with confidence.
Mike scooted around us.  "Walk faster, guys.  Bell's about to ring."
"After you," I said to Brie, motioning her ahead.
"Why not together?" she asked.
"Okay."
We walked faster together.


Our teacher didn't let us out early, but my conversation with Brie went much better than the day before.  I walked back to her after the bell rang, and she was smiling.
"You didn't do the wave," I said.
"Which wave?"
"This one."  I did it, and I must say that my finger curling looked very smooth.
"Careful with that," said Brie.  "People might think you're flirting with me."
"You tricked me into doing that," I said.
Her smile got a bit bigger.  "I'm a clever, clever woman."
I found myself smiling with her.  I didn't feel like a scum bag and I didn't feel particularly heavy.  I was starting to feel rather light, actually.
"Want to come eat lunch with us?" I asked before I could stop myself.  "We usually eat in the choir room--Sook, Mike, and I.  It's not like it's private or anything.  They don't check for a choir membership card at the door or anything like that.  Or I could come eat in the drama room."
"Really?" asked Brie, looking genuinely surprised.
"Why not?"
"Carrie said that you looked terrified just walking into the place.  I figured you'd never go into the drama room again."
"I'm learning to face my fears."
"Really?"
"No."
"We can eat in the choir room," said Brie.  "I'm cool with that.  I don't really hang out with anybody in the drama room anyway.  Will Mike and Sook mind?"
"No," said Mike, walking up to join us.  "We won't mind, though I will start to mind if we don't start walking.  I'm hungry."
"Let's go, then," said Brie.
We walked.  Nobody said anything.  I felt the awkwardness, but I didn't know how to fix it.  I wanted to talk about the City, but that would leave Mike out.  I suppose I could have talked about anything else, but I couldn't think of anything.  What did Mike and I usually talk about?  I was drawing a blank.
Mike helped me out.  "Where did you move from, Brie?"
"You've never heard of it," she said.
"Try me."
"Points Crossing?"
Mike's lips pressed into a thin line.  "Nope.  Never heard of it."
"I'm not from Points Crossing.  I'm from a little town that's just outside of Points Crossing.  You zoom in on Google Earth and we're the smudge next to the dot."
"That small?"
"Everyone knew the names of everyone else's pets.  Even the goldfish and Tommy's pet rock, Chuckles."
I looked at her carefully.  "I think you're making that up," I said.
She almost smiled.  "Maybe.  But I did come from a really small town."
"Why did you move here?" asked Mike.
"Dad's work and Mom's art.  Mostly Mom's art.  The gallery wanted her around to promote her work more actively, and traveling all the way here all the time was getting on her nerves.  So, when Dad got a job offer here, we took it."
"Do you like it?" I asked.  Yeah, that was me, asking a question.  I was pretty impressed with myself.
Brie shrugged.  "It's okay.  I like the drama program.  Way better than what we had in Points Crossing."
"Did you have a drama program?" asked Mike.
"No."
"That does sound like an improvement."
"How did you learn to act, then?"
"Who says I did?"
"But you were great!" I said.  "I mean, as the witch."
She shrugged again.  "That didn't take acting.  I just had to cackle a lot."
"That's not true," I said.  "You were great.  Really great."
Mike was grinning at me.  I could see what he was about to do.  I started to shake my head at him, but he said it anyway.
"Perry didn't know that was you," he said.
"Mike!"
"Perry!" said Brie.
"But that means that my compliment is even more sincere," I said.  "I didn't know it was you, and I still thought you were great."
Brie looked at me with narrowed eyes.  "I'll accept that.  I guess."
We kept walking, I glared at Mike, and he smiled at me.  I couldn't tell if I was happy with the way things were going or not.


The rest of lunch had exactly the same flavor.  Mike and Sook and Brie were all nice to each other, and we laughed some, and they did most of the talking, and I couldn't tell if I was happy with how things were going.  Every smooth moment had a seriously awkward moment to go with it.  By the time the lunch bell rang, I just wanted to go home and go to sleep.  Being awake was such hard work.
Instead I said 'see ya' to Brie and went to class with Sook.
"She seems really nice," said Sook.
"She is," I said.
"You did okay, Perry."
"Yeah," I said.
"You're just getting to know her.  Everything doesn't have to go right the first time."
"Unless the first time makes sure there isn't a second time," I muttered.
"What was that?" asked Sook.
I shook my head.  Sook sighed.
"You make everything harder than it needs to be," she said.
No kidding, I thought.


I went to bed early that night.  For one thing, I didn't have any particular reason to be awake--not even the promise of cake and ice cream, since I figured I'd just wake up and have some in the middle of the night--and I wanted to get into the City.  I wanted to see Brie there.  I could make things better, I knew, if I could see her where I felt good and where things worked for me.  She wouldn't have to put up with the daytime me.  She could see the happy me.
I could tell I woke up in the City because a small herd of potted plants were looking at me curiously.  I was lying on my back in someone's little city garden, raised planters and hanging pots all around me.
"I'm okay," I said, trying to reassure them, though I wasn't sure they needed reassuring.  I'd mostly gotten over my suspicions of plants in the City--I'd decided they wanted me to give them food, not to be their food--but I also didn't want them thinking I was either sick or elderly and needing to be culled from the herd.  "I'll get up now," I added, rising to my feet slowly.  The mobile pots around me scooted back, giving me space, and some of the hanging plants waved at me shyly.  They were all looking at me expectantly.
"I don't have any food," I said finally.  "Sorry."
They lost interest in me immediately.
I looked around, able to pay more attention to my surroundings now that I had more breathing room.  I was on a roof garden, plants packed into pretty much every square foot of roof that wasn't occupied by the door to a stairwell and fans for air circulation.  Even a satellite dish had plants hanging from it, though I couldn't quite figure out how there could be satellites in the City.  Was there even enough of a world here for something to orbit?  Would it crash into the moon?  The moon was so large above me I almost felt I could reach out and touch it.
The door to the stairwell opened.  A woman with oversized glasses pushed her way out, carrying a bread bag.  She was stooped at her shoulders and wore a floral-print shirt that hadn't been seen in the real world for twenty years--at least not that I'd seen.  She didn't seem to see me, but instead made her way to a bench that I hadn't noticed and sat down.  The plants crowded around her expectantly as she undid the twist-tie on the bread bag.  I stood awkwardly, not sure how to get her attention.
"Well?" she said.  She was looking down at her hands, so I couldn't tell if she was talking to me or not.  "Well?" she said again.  "Are you going to stand up all night, or are you going to sit down?  There's room enough on this bench for two, and I don't bite."

The City of Dreams -- Part 11

[This section gets a dedication.  It's a day late, but this is for Liz, my cousin who did the art on Pete and The Dog and on this page and who turned [AGE REDACTED] yesterday.  We were together in London while we did a semester at BYU's center there.  Of course, at the time I didn't really know what depression was, or that I was dealing with it, but we all survived, and Liz called me 'Drew' and helped convince me to dye my hair and we stood in the stones of Stonehenge.

[Now, thirteen years later, we know a lot more than we did.  Thanks for being my friend when I was young and stupid, Liz.]



I woke up.  Then I sat up.  The sheets around me were wet, my forehead was sweaty, and only my full bladder reassured me that none of the wet was from any more embarrassing results of being afraid.
I rolled out of bed, made my way to the bathroom by the light from the nightlight, emptied my bladder, and got a drink.  The tap water tasted awful, but I didn't want to go downstairs to get a drink from the filtered tap.  I wanted to go bug my sister.
Tamara's light was on and spilling under the crack of her door, so I knocked.  When there was no answer I turned the knob and pushed it open.
"Tamara?"
The light was from her reading lamp and she was asleep with her hand propping open a very thick novel.  I considered letting her sleep, but I wanted to talk.  I never want to talk, so I considered this a special case that made waking up a sleeping sister worthwhile.  I trusted that Tamara would agree.
It took calling her name a few times, bouncing the bed, and finally more extreme measures to get her awake.
"Don't lose my place!" she said, jerking awake as I pulled the book out of her hand.
"Good morning," I said.
She rubbed her eyes, rolled up onto one elbow, and looked at the clock.  "Perry.  You are insane."
"You fell asleep with your light on."
"Why didn't you just turn it off?"
"Because this is more fun."
"How is this more fun?"
"I don't know," I said, shrugging.  "It just is."
Tamara rubbed at her face again and looked at her fingers.  "Ohmygosh.  Did I take off my makeup?"
"Your face looks pretty naked from here," I said.
"Be glad that's the only thing naked," said Tamara.  "What if I'd been sleeping au natural?  Wouldn't you have been embarrassed."
"I would have politely covered you with a blanket.  And then woken you up."
Tamara looked at me--really looked at me--and scooted up to rest her back against the wall.  "You want to talk, don't you?" she said.
"Kind of."
"Which is Perry speak for 'I'm dying to tell someone but I don't know who.'"
I blinked at her.  "Why do girls have such an easy time saying things?"
"Physiology.  Boys have smaller language centers in their brains."
"Is that true?"
"No idea.  It's three in the morning, you woke me up, so I'm entitled to make up whatever I want about anything I want, and you have to nod and agree with me, or I go back to sleep and pour water on you in the middle of the night.  Then you'll be wondering if you still wet the bed, and you'll never know the truth.  Not for sure."
"I stopped wetting the bed years ago."
"Also a more common problem with boys than with girls," said Tamara, pulling her hair back and tying it up with something made of elastic.  "So what makes you want to talk at three in the morning?"
"I had a bad dream."
"What about?"
"A priest.  And light posts."  Then I stopped talking.  I wanted the words to come out, I willed the words to come out, but they weren't coming.  The stinky blanket, the heavy coat, they were back.  Not as heavy or stinky as before, but still enough to mess up everything that I wanted to come out of my head and get through the air to someone.  Anyone.  And Tamara was a good anyone.  Why couldn't I talk?
"Was that the whole dream?" asked my sister.  Her hair was more toward brown than Diana’s, pretty close to the color or Brie's hair.
"Most of it.  There's also a guy named Not."
"Like the thing with rope?"
"I...don't think so," I said, "though I suppose it could be.  I didn't think to have him spell it."
"But it's your dream, right?  Shouldn't you just know?"
"It's not exactly my dream.  It's more complicated than that."
Tamara shrugged.  "Complicated dreams is fine.  I get that.  I had this dream that I had to sell girl scout cookies to dogs, and schnauzers couldn't have thin mints, and dobermans couldn't stand coconut anything, and don't even get me started about the dulce de leche and the poodles.  But you didn't come here to ask about my dreams.  What was the bad part?"
I thought about it.  "Waking up.  And the street lights trying to kill me."
Tamara leaned her head back against the wall and looked at me.  "The killer street lights I get.  I think you'd better sit down to explain the other part.  Also, put a bookmark in that book, because if you lose my place then I'll have to kill you."
"What is this book, anyway?" I asked.  "It's huge."
"It's huge and Russian," said Tamara.  "I have to read it for school, and if you lose my place I'll have to find it again, and finding my place in the middle of all those 'ovskys' and 'oviches' and 'ovnas' is a nightmare worse than killer lampposts, so take that piece of paper off my desk and save us both a headache."
I put the paper in with exaggerated care, set it on her desk, and pulled out her chair.  I sat on it sideways, leaning on the back with my arms crossed, and looked at her.
"So, Perry," she said in what was probably supposed to be a German accent, "tell me about your father."
"You mean my dreams."
"Whatever," she said, completely American again.  "I like you, Perry, but it's now three-oh-five, and we have to leave for school in four hours, so unless this is a very, very frightening dream that will cause you trauma for the rest of your life, then it's a dream on a time limit."
I nodded.  "I talked with a priest."
"Confession?"
"No.”
"Do you need to confess anything?"
"We're not even Catholic, Tamara."
"I hear confession is good for the soul.  Speaking of which, the other night when we had lasagna, we also had cookies."
"I didn't get any cookies," I said.
"And now I've confessed.  We ate them all.  I feel so much better."
"Tamara."
"Yes, Perry."
"Can we be serious for just a minute?"
"Yes, Perry."
"Do you mind if that minute starts right now?"
"Yes, Perry."
"Then why aren't you being serious yet?"
"Okay, give me a second."  She rubbed at her eyes again, then looked at me.  Then she busted up laughing.
"I'm going back to bed," I said, and stood up.
"No, Perry, don't do that.  Sit down."  She patted the bed next to her.  "Sit, Perry.  Tell me about the priest.  And tell me why you didn't want to wake up from your dream, because if I were being attacked by killer street lights, I'd probably want to wake up."
I looked at her.  "You're going to be serious?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still laughing?"
"I'm just getting the giggles out.  National deficit, clubbing baby seals, Kung Pao chicken.  There.  Giggles all gone.  Really, Perry.  Sit."
I gave her a second, just to double check that she meant it, and realized I really did want to talk with someone.  Wanted it badly enough to wake up my sister in the middle of the night, enough to not really care if she laughed at me.  I sat down.
"So what was with the priest?"
"He said he thinks I'm depressed."
Tamara looked at me expectantly.
"And?" she said finally.
"That's it," I said.  "I'm depressed.  Suffering from depression."
"And?"
"Isn't that big enough?"
"Didn't you know that, Perry?"
"How should I know that?"
"Diana and Cindy and I have known it for months.  You've been a walking corpse."
My nose wrinkled.  "That's a gross image"
"But not too far from accurate," said Tamara.
"How did you guys know?"
"You're the only one of us so far who hasn't taken psychology, Perry.  Well, Cindy hasn't yet, but she'll probably sign up for it next year.  We told her it's an easy 'A.'"
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Tamara turned her hands over in a question.  "What is there to tell?  'Perry, we've been talking, and we've decided that you feel lousy.'  We figured you already knew that."
"But what do I do about it?"
"There's always medication."
"I don't want to take medication."
"That's what we figured, so we didn't bring it up."
"But medication helps?" I asked.
"Some people.  Therapy helps some people.  Diana read somewhere that exercise helps."
I leaned back against the wall.  "Is that why you all kept trying to get me into cross country?"
"That's part of it," said Tamara.  "Also, Cindy has a friend who runs who has a little crush on you, so it's kind of a favor, too."
"No she doesn't," I said.
Tamara smiled and shrugged.  "You're a cute boy, Perry.  Can I pinch your cheek?"
"Can I pull your bookmark out?"
"I've thought about it," said my sister, "and I think I'll keep my hands to myself."
"I have such smart sisters."
"I know," said Tamara, modestly.
We sat for a minute, quietly.  I think she was waiting for me to talk.  I wanted to talk.  I made some huge, gut wrenching effort and got my mouth moving.
"I don't think I want to be depressed.  It's not fun."
"It doesn't look fun.  I had been planning on trying it, but then you started, and I didn't want to crowd you."
"You do art, Cindy does cross country, and I do depression?"
"Exactly.  Every child should have room to shine."
I smiled.  "Have we started being serious yet?"
"Not really," said Tamara, "but is that okay?  I'm afraid if I get too serious you'll run away."
I thought about it.  I nodded.  "Yeah, I probably would."
"So now you know you're depressed," said my sister, pushing out of bed and going to her dresser.  "What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know.  What fixes depression?"
Tamara shrugged and pulled out a drawer.  "You didn't like any of the things I suggested."
"Drugs, therapy, or running?  I hate running.  That's part of why the dream was so bad.  I had to run a lot to get away from the street lights."
She turned to look at me, holding flannel pajamas and pushing her drawer closed with her back.  "But in dreams, can't you run forever without getting tired?  Or fly?"
"These aren't those kind of dreams.  They feel...really real."
"Really real?"
"Really really real."
"Really really?"
"Exactly."
"Like how?"
"It's in a city, and it's just like I'm awake, but instead of a normal sky, the entire sky is the moon, and the stars chase around under it.  And the buildings move, and I already mentioned the light posts, and there's a girl I know from school."
"Aha," said Tamara.
I stopped.  "What was that?" I asked.
"What was what?"
"That 'aha.'"
"Just an aha.  A normal aha.  Nothing special."
"But why right there?  It's just a girl I know."
"And you're dreaming about her."
"It's not like that.  She's dreaming about me, too."
"Aha," said Tamara.
"No, not that way!  The City--the City of Dreams--it's a place that lots of people can dream about at the same time.  I'm dreaming, and Brie is dreaming, and the guy down the street is dreaming, and we all dream the same city.  It's like we're awake, but we're not here, we're there."
"Her name is Brie?" asked my sister.
"You're not hearing the important parts!  The thing is it's this crazy place where everything is different.  I run and get tired, and I scrape my knees, and I eat food, and it all feels real, but I feel different there."
"Different how?"
"I don't feel so tired all the time.  I don't feel angry without knowing why, and I don't hate everything I'm doing, and I don't feel like running away from people, and I--"
"Don't feel depressed," finished Tamara.
"Right.  I don't feel depressed."
"And so you don't want to wake up."
"Exactly.  When I'm awake I feel terrible.  And I screw things up."
"Did you screw things up with Brie?"
"I think."
"Which is why you woke me up in the middle of the night?"
I rested my head against the wall and looked up at the ceiling.  "It's a big mix of reasons."  I looked back down in time to catch Tamara yawning.
"Can those reasons wait for tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, not sure I could ever get my mouth loose enough to talk about these things again.  "Yeah, they can wait."
"I'm not going to let it go, Perry.  We will talk about this."
"Sure," I said.
Tamara looked at me.  Then she sighed.  "Whatever.  Get out, Perry.  I'm changing and going back to sleep."
"Sure," I said again, feeling doors closing that had opened in Father Thomas's living room.  "See you in three hours."
"Is your alarm set?" asked Tamara.  "Because I'm not waking you up."
"It's set," I said.

The City of Dreams -- Part 10

[Slightly shorter section this time; it really is a continuation of the last section, though, so don't complain at me too much.  I'll see if I can get another section written tonight, but don't count on it.  Fat Tony needs some good attention.  I want to start sending it out to agents by the end of the week, which is a little ambitious.

[And frankly, as far as my writing goes, I think a little ambition isn't a bad thing.]


"That was an adventure, wasn't it," said Not.
I just gasped.  The bush quivered at me with some curiosity.
"To think that we'd get to see something that probably very few people have ever had a chance to see," he went on.  "I mean, I've spent some time watching nature programs, and the show about the mating habits of fire hydrants was fascinating, but I'd never even heard of street light dominance rituals.  I feel invigorated."
My body was shaking, and it took me a minute to realize I was laughing.
"Not," I said, "you are nuts."
I could feel him smiling at me.
"Seems like you're feeling better," he said.  "Now you can answer my question."
"Which question was that?"
"Are you going to ask Brie out?"
I shook my head.  "She doesn't really like me.  I may be dense, but I'm not that dense.  If a girl liked me, I'd know it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure.  She doesn't like me.  I mean, not in that way."
"No," said Not.  "I meant, are you sure you'd know it?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know," said Not, and I could feel him give the abandoned dream equivalent of a shrug.  "It's just that you feel pretty self absorbed to me, so I'm not sure that you're always aware of what other people think about you.  I mean, I bet you think about it a lot, but I doubt you're always good at really seeing it."
I felt annoyed.  "I'm not self absorbed."
"Brie had to tell you what her name was."
"That's not the point," I said.
"You'd been in the same English class for most of a school year."
"But there are lots of people in my classes whose names I don't know."
"Exactly," said Not.
"You're annoying," I said.
"I'm just trying to point out that she might very well like you and you haven't realized it."
I shook my head, the grass rustling around my ears.  "Some people do more touching than other people.  I'm a non-toucher, and Brie is a toucher, but that doesn't mean she likes me.  If I went around thinking that every girl who ever touched me was in love with me, I'd think half the school was in love with me."
"Do that many girls actually touch you?" asked Not.
I thought about it.
"Is that a hard question to answer?" he prodded.
"Not that many, I guess," I finally admitted.
"How many?"
"None."
"So other girls don't touch you, and Brie does, and you don't think she likes you."
"But why should she?  It's not like I'm anything special, and she's got to have lots of friends, so why pick a guy who never talks to anybody, who walks around unhappy most of the time, and who doesn't look like much of anything?"
"I'm not sure you have a very clear picture of yourself," said Not.
"Sure I do," I muttered.  I was starting to feel distressingly like I usually felt when I was awake, and I didn't like it much.  Not should either go away or change the subject.   He didn't.
"Also, I don't think you have a good grasp of who Brie is, either.”
"She's a drama person.  Drama people are just like that."
"Like what?"
"Like she is!"
"And how is that?"
"They're more touchy and flirty and stuff like that.  It doesn't mean anything."
"It doesn't mean anything, or you don't want it to mean anything?"
"You are really on my nerves now."
"You could always wake up," said Not.
"Shut up," I said.
"Want me to change the subject?"
"Yes, please."
"Why aren't you with Brie right now?"
"That isn't changing the subject," I said.
"Sure it is," said Not.  "Before I was asking you if you were going to ask her out, and then we were talking about whether or not she likes you, and now I'm changing the subject."
"But we're still talking about Brie.  I wanted to move away from that."
"You didn't make that clear," said Not.
"I'm making it clear now.  Let's talk about something else."
"I don't want to," said Not.
"Why not?"
"I like her."
"Fine.  Go hang out with her."
"I like you, too, though.  Can't I hang out with both of you?"
"I was rude to her, all right?  I didn't really mean to be, but I was mean to her, and she's mad at me, and I need to apologize, but I'll probably just mess it up again, and I don't want to mess it up, so I'm putting it off, all right?  Does that answer your question?"
Not held very still for a moment.  "Yes, it does."
"Good," I said.  "Now can we change the subject?"
"I think," said Not, "not."
"Why, Not?"
"Because I can't figure something out."
"Are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?"
"I'll tell you."
"I'm waiting."
"I'm trying to understand why you're so convinced that you'll mess it up."
"Because I always do.  I always say the wrong thing, and my mouth doesn't work, and I carry grumpiness around me like a dark, stinky blanket.  Unless I'm making jokes, it feels like I'm just sharing that blanket with everyone I meet, and I don't want to share with Brie.  I mean, I do want to share with Brie, but not the gross blanket."
Not thought for a moment.  "That's when you're awake, though, right?"
"Yeah."
"How do you know that will be true while you're asleep?"
It was my turn to think for a bit.  "It is easier to talk in the City."
"Your feelings come out right, don't they," said Not.
"At least much closer to what I want to say, yeah."
"And you had fun with her last night."
"A lot."
"Then go find her.  Give it a try.  Apologize when you're not carrying your blanket."
I tried to get a good look at Not and failed, but kept trying anyway.  "Whoever abandoned you probably did want to be a psychiatrist," I said.  "At least a therapist of some kind."
"I thought about it," said Not, "but I don't think so.  It's just kind of easy to understand you."
"I'm that obvious, huh?"
"Like the back of my hand."
I looked down at my hand, lit from the glow of the bushes and trees around and above me.  "I've never paid much attention to the back of my hand," I said, "and do you even have one?"
"I do have hands," said Not, "but I'm not positive they have backs."
"What would an abandoned dream need backs to his hands for?" I said.
"Exactly," said Not.
I thought about what he was saying.  He had a lot of good points.  I was being grumpy more out of habit than anything else.  Unlike during my waking hours, apologizing to Brie didn't seem doomed to failure in the City.  Maybe I could say the right words, or at least say it with enough sincerity that she'd realize all my wrong words were an honest attempt to say the right thing.  We'd had a lot of fun, and then I ignored her, and then I didn't even tell her I was glad to see her.  If a girl started talking to me that way, I would have been waiting for her to tell me she just wanted to be friends.
"Why not?" I said.
"Why not what?" asked the dream.
"Why not apologize?  Why not do it here?  It has a better chance of working than trying to do it during the day.  Anything can happen in the City, right?"
"Well, technically, no, not anything can happen here," said Not.
"I think I'm going to ignore that comment," I said.
"Fair enough," said Not.
"So how do I find her?"
"I don't know," said Not.
I stared at him.
"Then why did you suggest that I go find her?  And how do you find me?"
"I find you because I find you.  The rest of the time I just wander around, which is another reason that I don't go hang out with Brie.  Last time you were the one who found her."
"I didn't find her.  She found me."
"And you're sure she doesn't like you?" asked Not.
"No," I said, "I'm not."  I wasn't sure.  I'd spent lots of the afternoon talking myself out off the possibility, but Not was  pretty convincing, and I wanted her to like me.  I wanted to like her.  "But whether she likes me or not, she deserves an apology.  I should find her and give her that much, and then anything after that--we'll have to figure it out."
"That's a very mature way to look at it," said Not.
"I thought so," I said.
"There is one problem, though."
"What's that?" I asked.  "You mean, a problem besides the fact that we don't know how to find her?"
"Right."
"Please explain."
"The trees are moving away."
"Why is that a problem?"
"Trees and street lights don't get along."
Suddenly the bush scuttled away from over me, giving me a good view of the downward glowing, red gaze of seven street lights.
"I guess they've finished their territorial dominance rituals," said Not.
"Crap," I said.
One street light, scarred and scraped from the recent battle, buzzed at me fiercely and reared his head back.  As it began to streak downward toward me I realized two things: one, I was never going to roll out of the way in time; and two, I didn't want to die.
Not even in a dream.